


Cloud, Rain, Wind

by fakescorpion (SiZodiac)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Hair, Body Part Kinks, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Dysfunctional Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Points of View, Sexual Violence, Violence, intentional misuse of chinese folklore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 09:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13073994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiZodiac/pseuds/fakescorpion
Summary: The Azure Dragon and the White Tiger. The battle in the rain and aftermath, originally written before BvS.





	Cloud, Rain, Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [雲雨風 Cloud, Rain, Wind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6227674) by [fakescorpion (SiZodiac)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiZodiac/pseuds/fakescorpion). 



> In Chinese folklore, a man with much body hair is called an Azure Dragon, while a woman with no body hair might be a White Tiger taken human form. It is said that they are hypersexualized in nature, and would bring misfortune to all but each other. aka basically the incubus and succubus of Chinese folklore. Since DC did these (pictures below), so how could I resist!!

_\- Batman/Superman #31 cover_

 

__

_\- DCEU Superman’s body (top), DCEU Batman’s body (bottom)_

 

On the outskirts of Gotham City, there is a mansion of glass and steel located on the shores of a serene lake within the acres of Wayne Manor mountainside property, lying in the misty embrace of the hazy morning fog. Sharp architectural edges reflect the cold shimmering rays from the daybreak sun, the Farnsworth Glass House surrounded by green foliage overlooks a sparkling lake, like a exquisitely cut gemstone. Here lives the painful ending of a twisted fairytale whispered through the past fifty years. It started with a marriage between the two oldest and most powerful aristocratic families of this black kingdom, the birth of a pretty little prince under the blessing of the whole city, and the sudden devastating tragedy of gunshot and pearls and a mystery never solved.

The little child prince grew into a man, and by then the King of Gotham has long ago lost his soul, for a demonic bat to crawl out of purgatory, in response to those tears fell onto the crime alley pavement.

This enchanting glass house with its rows of fenceless open windows and white silk curtains swaying in the breeze, seems always open to the outside world, insubstantial in all its extravagant glory. Inaccessible, only due to its remote location. Cold, lonely, and empty, like the isolated palace of the Snow Queen. The King of Gotham has nothing to hide, for he has already lost his very important soul. The light of dawn disperses the misty clouds gathered in the night, and the fantasy seems a little more real.

Bruce Wayne is the Gotham Bat.

Bruce Wayne is the goddamned Gotham Bat.

Superman observes silently from some distance, his presence partially hidden within the heavy lingering mist. The different facades so dissimilar, it is almost unfathomable. The haunted tyrant that wrapped himself in layers of inscrutable armor under the darkness of night, would purposefully place himself in such luxurious glass showcase under the glimmer of day for all to see.

The spacious master bedroom of the minimalistic glass house is located on a landing partially jutted out from the lakefront, adjoining an elegant outdoor deck, with large transparent panels taking up two whole sides of the wall to capture that rare Gotham sunshine. Clothing are thrown carelessly about, with layers of pristine white duvet hanging off the bed and falling onto the floor. The capricious manor owner is soundly asleep at the moment, his naked body curling between the clutter of downy pillows and his arms bending at an angle to cuddle the soft bedding. Slender fingertips cling at the folds in the sheets as he dreams, these precious three hours around daybreak the only time he could truly rest.

A turn made in slumber, an unintentional tug at the silken quilt and the expanse of his bare back can be seen clearly from the viewing window, the beautiful lines of muscles to the faintly visible crack between his ass cheeks. Unyielding muscular lines move as he breathes in deep, with the most visible blemish on his skin the handprint-shaped bruise on the left side of his waist and hip.

Clark’s left index finger twitches, recalling how he had held onto that narrow waist, and how with the slightest increase of strength, left those blossoming marks. The mortality of human flesh and blood is like a condescending punchline to the twenty-year myth of the Bat, that body persisted and undefeatable, bigger than life.

Until Superman.

The air flow swirls with Clark’s movement, the vivid red cape disrupts the misty clouds around the lakeshore as he picks a different angle to observe the Ice King from afar. The rising vapor gradually disperses due to sunrise, and that priceless jewel of a glass house looks even more enchanting with the adornment of the glittering golden dawn. What do you dream of, Bruce? Clark wonders as he looks at the sleeping form make a tiny motion with a quiet sigh falling from those pretty lips, a leg bending up, unintentionally tugging the quilts off a few inches more. More traces of the night before are left exposed, at the roots of his thigh, bruises imprinted in the shape of fingers is another evidence of previous crude atrocity.

Clark feels his mouth dry with unquenchable thirst. He wants to be in that room, wants to peel off that thin sheet of coverlet to turn the man around, wants to see with human-like color vision whether that body is as beautiful as he has imagined. Not enough, one night of madness is not enough. And never has Clark realized he would be so easily addicted.

Eyes hidden under lenses that exuded cold glows in the dark of night, the marching of heavy metal boots and the jagged hem of black cloak dragging through the dirty floor. Layers upon layers of protection, cracked under the violence of superhuman strength, and underneath all that hulking artillery is a tiny glimpse of soft smooth skin. To the Kryptonian, such a sharp contrast is the most adulterated seduction.

I’m so screwed, Clark thinks to himself with a shake of his head. Superman does not like Batman, be it in style, attitude, or means to an end. They have vastly different standpoint on life and values, the Man of Tomorrow should be completely disgusted by that Dark Knight. Yet the irony is that less than twelve hours apart since they made their official acquaintance, Clark finds himself voluntarily coming to this place, just to feast his eyes on that man from a distance of miles away.

 

 

Humid mist around the lakehouse slowly dissipates, and the thin layer of frost on the outside of the glass walls turn to morning dew, all thanks to AC maintaining a suitable indoor temperature. It is not often for Bruce to wake before his chief of security nags at him of the late hours, and he soothes his breathing and heartrate to a steady pace for instinctly he can sense the heat of an unfriendly gaze.

Oh, Bruce certainly does not have to guess to know who it is, as the Super- _boy_ surely left an indelible impression the previous night. His back and legs still feels sore, not to mention the ugly bruising on his thighs and waist. Although to say there is no part of his body looking forward to a repeat of last night would be a lie. His peculiar kinks is seriously getting out of control.

Now the question is, should he give in or not? Bruce Wayne did not like Clark Kent at all, and the Bat has nothing for Superman but mistrust. So who could have predicted that after a night of punches and kicks, they would become inseperable as the negative and positive ends of a powerful magnet. Bruce knows what would follow if he opts to turn around and give a nod of nonverbal consent. A piece of glass has little hope of stopping a god that can rain holy fire from the sky, and a thin layer of bedding fabric cannot protect him from the raging blaze of youthful lust.

Worse still, Bruce finds himself starting to get excited by the idea. Goddamnit.

From Bruce’s perspective, limited human eyesight means he only has tactile memory of last night’s madness. Icy raindrops falling on his face, bulky armor easily torn as if they were made of cardboard, being held down immovable against the wall and than the floor. The inky gloom of night-time Gotham streets made it difficult for him to see clearly beyond the general outlines of his surrounding. And that just wasn’t fair at all. Bruce had never bothered to think much about what may be hiding underneath Superman’s gaudy attire, as the tight alien regalia already left nothing to the imagination, or so he thought until the day he met the Man of Steel himself.

Inadvertently clutching the duvet bedsheet covering his chest, so subtle a movement, but Bruce is aware that it would not escape the Kryptonian monster’s gaze. He knows that his prey is awake.

Yet the predominant thought drumming in his head is not that different from inviting a wolf into the hen house, but Bruce truly wants to rip the superhuman kid’s uniform apart under the limelight of dawn so that he can finally see for himself. Is it exactly as Chinese folklore stated, it would form a full-length azure dragon baring commanding claws and fangs.

Bruce pouts as his fingertips blithely touches the smooth skin on his chest. Aliens, so as man of Earth he has no choice but to acknowledge their superiority in all aspect of life, including _this_. God he feels emasculated.

Foolish.

Pointless.

But he is not the Bat, not now anyway.

Bruce Wayne is an infamous one-night lover of the elite society, seemingly graceful and regal, and rarely refuses anybody. Besides, it is already too late to only now contemplate the inanity and hazard of essentially committing beastiality with an extraterrestrial being. So is it actually that much a risk to temporarily put aside the responsibility of the Dark Knight, so he could satisfy his desire and that negligible little curiosity? A night and a day later, with another identity, they can still confront each other as enemies.

Bruce sits up from the pile of fluffy pillows and casts aside the silk bedsheet covering his chest, deliberately revealing his firm pectorals and stretching out a leg to showoff his smooth calf and shin. Judging from the reaction received last night, it is likely that the Kryptonian beast is similarly curious about his manscaped body. Bruce narrows his dark chocolate eyes, sweet as honey, and the corner of his lips quirk into that half ravishing smile. The resounding echo of a sonic boom sends ripples through the glass windows and walls in that millisecond, before cracking them into the brittle formation of a kaleidoscope crystal. The speed of which is so inhumanly fast that it is impossible to tell with the naked eye where has the formidable creature come from, only that he appears in an instant on the deck overlooking the lake.

Clark tilts his head, eagerly, he raises a hand and pushes the shattered glass door aside.

 

 

 

 


End file.
